


An Enemy

by reddottedpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Character Study, Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, Holmes Brothers, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes, Protective Mycroft, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-04-24 16:54:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14359659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddottedpaper/pseuds/reddottedpaper
Summary: A journey into the Iceman's mind and heart.Some of the important moments Mycroft and Sherlock have shared in their lives.





	1. Brother Mine

"Goodbye, brother mine."

He stood tall and strong like a soldier at attention and his eyes glowed with pride upon his brother. There were many things he wanted to say out loud, many things that he wished to tell Sherlock before he would eventually die, always postponing them, promising himself that there would be a more appropriate time later.

There will be no more later, realized Mycroft. No more urgent calls on his phone about Sherlock getting himself into government level trouble, no more bickering between the two of them, no more cigarettes to drag down to the filter together, no more dry and witty remarks to get offended about. He hated and at the same time reveled in all of those things.

"No flowers. By request."

He looked his brother in the eye and gave him a warm smile despite the gun in Sherlock's hand aimed at his chest. Somehow, the moment felt nostalgic, inviting. Mycroft felt as if the time had slowed down and decided to give him a chance to get himself together.

He would not be a man who died a crying mess. No, Mycroft Holmes would die with his head held high, with his eyes open and his mind at peace. Not so much for him, but for Sherlock. For John Watson. He had a face to uphold in front of them. Sentiment was always considered a burden in his job anyway, just as it was in his personal life, but he wasn't a stranger to it. And now he felt as if he deserved to give in to it for the last time. So just for a moment, just for a split of a second before his time of death, he allowed himself to look back at his life.

"I always liked your Lady Bracknell." 

"Shouldn't you be off getting me a pardon or something? Like a _proper_ big brother?" 

"I'm not a hero. I'm a high functioning sociopath. Merry Christmas!" 

"What the _hell_ am I supposed to say to that?" 

"Look at them. They all care so much." 

"List?" 

"Piss off, Mycroft." 

"Brother." 

"My'coft." 

And all he could recall was his brother's voice. Sherlock calling out to him when he was little. Sherlock cursing at him now. 

His little brother, always needing protection in his eyes. Always getting himself to trouble, always so dramatic and annoying but never ceasing to surprise him with his brilliance. Whenever he looked at Sherlock, Mycroft saw that little boy with cute cheeks and a black pirate hat resting on a head full of brown curls. The little annoying brother. The smart bastard who always did things his way and never missed a chance to make his life harder. 

For Sherlock, Mycroft felt his frozen heart burn with something that resembled brotherly love.

Ever since he first saw him. And now as he was staring down the barrel. 


	2. The Baby

"He's disgusting."

The little creature that wiggled unhappily in his mother's arms was indeed, as Mycroft wasn't afraid to note, disgusting. At least in his eyes it sure was. All red and wrinkly and obnoxiously loud. 

"Mike. That's not very nice now, is it?" rumbled his father's voice behind him as he ruffled Mycroft's hair.

Despite the chastening nature of his words, Mr. Holmes didn't hold back a chuckle and Mycroft knew that he would get out of this punishment free. He leaned against the side of the hospital bed and rested his chin down on his arms, watching cautiously the baby in his mother's arms.

"His name is Sherlock," said Mrs. Holmes proudly, showing the little creature to Mycroft, "Isn't that cool, Mikey? You have a little brother."

Mycroft felt repelled and he made sure to theatrically lean back when his mother offered him to touch the baby. 

"Sherlock?" he grunted a bit.

"Does he get an awful nickname like me?" he muttered, "Sherl. Or Shelly."

His father couldn't help himself and smirked, patting his older son's back. 

"You'll have plenty of time to think of some, Mike."

"Sherlocock," whispered Mycroft under his breath.

"Whoah. Hey! Where'd you learn a word like that?!"

Laughing but exhausted, Mrs. Holmes leaned back into the big pillow behind her and stared dreamily down at her newborn son while her husband pulled Mycroft out of the room to give him a stern talking to. 

It wouldn't be of much use, but he would always try. Mycroft was the smartest child at his school and quite wise even at his young age of 7. This also meant that he soon developed a mind of his own and would more than often talk back to whoever authoritative figure was unfortunate to be near him at the moment. Most often his parents.

And while his father tried to erease a swear word out of his head, his mother was smiling down at his new little brother whose tiny hand was holding onto her finger. He was sucking his thumb while Mrs. Holmes watched the bright blue eyes that were looking at the world with such curiousity and eagerness, same look that she saw in Mycroft on the day he was born. She pressed a soft kiss to the baby's head. 

"Welcome to the family, Sherlock," she whispered against the newborn's skin.

"That was Mycroft, your brother. He'll take such good care of you."

Confidence and assurance that flowed with her voice made Sherlock visibly smile up at her. She smiled back and held her son close as she closed her eyes, opening them only to the sound of the door opening and Mycroft and her husband walking back inside. Neither one of them looked victorious about the argument they were having. Mrs. Holmes smiled at her boys as Mr. Holmes nervously led Mycroft in by the shoulders.

"We settled on Mycroft calling Sherlock 'the baby'. For now," said his father.

"The _disgusting_ baby," muttered Mycroft, watching his little brother.

When the baby arrived home Mycroft kept his distance, curiously watching his parents hold and cradle his brother while never engaging in his care himself. But on the first night, the door of his room squeaked silently open as he padded through the hallway in his pajamas and infiltrated his baby brother's room. He walked up to the cot and used a stack of books to step on so he was tall enough to look inside. What he saw wasn't nearly as disgusting as it looked back in the hospital.

His baby brother was now somewhat of a more normal human skin color and this up close and asleep, Mycroft could see himself describing him a bit more fondly. The baby had light long eyelashes and his skin looked so soft, his little hand and fingers cute baby chubby. Mycroft took a minute to just watch him, wondering if this was some kind of camouflage or deception the little baby surely had plotted. Then he corrected himself, babies didn't plot anything, babies ate, slept, cried and defecated and that was it.

"Hey, baby."

With a gentle tap on the baby's leg, he woke his little brother up. As expected, but not from Mycroft, there was an immediate reaction of whimpers and scoffs from the newborn. Mycroft started to panic, his eyes wide open, his hands started waving in front of the baby.

"Shh. Hush. Don't cry. No crying."

But the baby opened his eyes and did start to cry, wept while looking up at the ceiling and when Mycroft looked up, he saw the reason why. The little ornaments hanging above his crib were illuminated by the yellow night light in the room, throwing scary shadows at the ceiling. Mycroft climbed up on the crib and removed the hanging ornaments, putting them away. Like a switch, the baby brother stopped his fuss and was now intently staring at Mycroft. Hoping that the crying didn't wake up their parents, Mycroft silently climbed back down and watched his brother through the bars.

"Okay. The shadows are gone now, happy?" 

The answer for his question was a pure innocent smile and the older brother looked away, embarrassed that he found it cute. He let out a deep breath and looked straight into those bright baby blue eyes.

"Listen here, baby. You're the new one in the family. Mum and dad told me about you and I was preparing for this for seven months. You see, I'm your big brother, so, they expect me to take care of you. And I will. You should have a role model to look up to, you know. A role model like me."

Mycroft knew that babies' attention span was that of a goldfish, he knew that he needed to speak fast before his little brother found another reason to cry, but he was surprised to see that he had his full attention. His baby brother was relatively still, not kicking or moving around, eyes fixed on him and hanging on every word that he said. That little chubby face looked like he understood everything Mycroft was saying. 

Pleasently surprised, Mycroft continued, "I'll need you to work with me. Cooperation. I think we should set rules to this whole brother thing. First, I'm not really hungry for attention so you can have all of it that you want. Or need. You're not really smart yet so I think you'd die if our parents didn't tend to you all the time."

The baby brother cooed in his crib in response, clearly not understanding what exactly that meant.

"Second, I'll allow you to play with my old baby toys, so you can have them. They're too childish for me, anyway. But don't try to eat the blue rabbit. I tried it once, it was awful. While you can play though, don't destroy them. That's the rule, okay?"

He pointed a threatening finger and the baby brother reached out and took hold of it in his tiny hand.

"Third-," Mycroft stopped himself, looking at the tiny hand enveloping his finger. 

He gently tried to shake him off but to no avail. A little frustrated, Mycroft continued.

"You see, this is the third one. Do not puke on me or pee on me or some other gross thing, okay? This holding is fine, but do try to limit everything else on mummy and daddy."

As if he understood, the baby brother seemed to nod his head. 

"Fourth, I hate being called Mike. Or Mikey. Or Mikey-doo. Just don't. If you will, I will repay the favor. And our parents gifted you with a name that is very nickname-able, so do think about that."

He squinted his eyes a little bit and the baby seemed to take that advice to his heart.

"And finally, the fifth rule. I will try to teach you the things I know. And I will try to get you out of trouble, we are brothers, after all. But I need you to always tell me what's wrong and what you need. Yeah? I hate when people don't tell me what's going on or try to lie to me. I'm not stupid. And I believe that very soon, you won't be stupid either. So we'll be always honest with each other."

Mycroft gently gripped the bar of the crib with his other hand and got closer so the baby knew that he meant it.

"Always come to me when you're in trouble. And I'll try my best to sort it out. I'm good at those things. You can trust me." 

His hushed voice landed on the baby's ears and caused another smile, dimples appearing in those chubby cheeks. As if to shake his hand, his little brother gently squeezed Mycroft's finger. 

"Right. Shake on it."

And Mycroft gently shook his baby brother's hand.

* * *

He was reading a book on the sofa when Sherlock wobbled over to him, practicing walking as toddlers do, always under the watchful eye of his mother or father of course. He leaned against the furniture and handed Mycroft a small rubber ducky. A bit annoyed, Mycroft accepted the gift, looking up from his book.

"Thanks, baby," he muttered as he put it next to him and resumed reading.

"My'coft." 

Both Mycroft and his parents froze up and immediately looked down at the toddler. Smiling with only a few teeth, the baby brother turned around and walked back to his toy box, taking out a toy pirate ship. 

"Did, did he just talk?" muttered Mr. Holmes, watching him in amazement.

Before anyone could answer the question, the toddler returned back to the sofa and handed the toy to Mycroft.

"My'coft," said his little brother again.

Surprised Mycroft slowly put away his book, sitting up straight. He'd said his name. And not some stupid nickname or some childish version of it. No. His name. Sure, the 'r' was missing and he mumbled it, but still. It was his name. 

Sherlock, unlike their parents, always called him by his name.

Proud, Mycroft took the toy ship and smiled.

"Thank you, Sherlock."


	3. Yellowbeard

Hearing his brother cry had always been hard. Hearing his brother cry for his missing friend while their sister sang a song was harder than anything Mycroft had ever encountered. 

Sherlock spent days looking and searching for his mate. He turned over every rock at Musgrave, he spent days outside and ran out at night, thinking he figured out a part of the riddle only for Mycroft to find him in the morning wet, mudded and weak, shivering with tears drawing lines on his face. 

"Eurus, tell me! Eurus, please!" Sherlock would plead and plead. 

He begged her on days on end and she kept singing. She stopped communicating by any other way, only repeating her little song over and over. 

The song is the answer, Sherlock.

I that am lost, oh who will find me?

Not Mycroft, not their parents, not the police could get her to talk. 

Help succour me now the east winds blow.

And Sherlock couldn't figure it out. No matter how hard he tried and searched for clues, the riddle was just too hard. 

Save one, save all, come try!

Nobody knew the answer. Not Mycroft. Not his parents. Not the authorities. Not Sherlock. 

Doom shall I bring to him, I that am queen.

He didn't find him in time.

He didn't find him at all. 

Nobody did. 

Mycroft watched his little brother take off his black pirate hat and set it down on the beach outside their house. Not knowing what to do or say, he stood still, watching his little brother as he let the waves of the ocean carry the hat away and wash off any trace of it from the soft sand. 

Mycroft knew it wasn't just a pirate hat. Sherlock knew it too. 

It was Yellowbeard and Redbeard. It was their game. Their friendship. It was Yellowbeard, the feared, and Redbeard, the dreaded. It was Sherlock Holmes. It was Victor Trevor.

It was his brother dealing with a trauma that Mycroft understood was too big to bear. 

Sherlock turned around and saw Mycroft standing there, his big figure shielding the bland sun from shining in Sherlock's eyes. The eldest Holmes' son approached his little brother and looked down into his bright eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." 

Staying silent, Sherlock held back the tears that were forming in his eyes. Mycroft never was a hugger but he hugged Sherlock as tight and safe as he could, tucking him under his arms. Sherlock cried then for the last time. Mycroft cried as well, knowing that behind them in the driveway to their house are police cars and a psychiatrist talking with their parents, waiting for Sherlock. That their little sister is twisted and feared, yet blindly loved. Even by Mycroft. 

They were all too young to understand the situation. 

But Mycroft learned to grow up quickly when their house burned down. 

When their father and mother rushed them all outside in the middle of the night, with Eurus holding matches and looking disappointed at the sight of Sherlock alive.

They took her away. It was for the best, Mycroft understood. For Sherlock. For their parents, even when they were so hurt. They never forgot Eurus, but all of them tried their best to make sure Sherlock did. And it was Mycroft who supported the little seed of safe doubt his mind had created.

"Mycroft, that dog looks just like Redbeard," uttered the younger Holmes while the family was out on a walk.

Confused, not hearing the name for months, alerted Mycroft looked up. Sherlock's finger was pointing to the distance at an elderly couple walking their Irish Redsetter. 

Little brother, thought Mycroft, your mind really is a brilliant one. 

"Yeah. But Redbeard had longer ears, right?" smiled Mycroft at his brother.

"What? No. They were just like that, you remember wrong," cut back Sherlock and kept walking.

Mycroft didn't even mind the correction. He couldn't protect his little brother from his sister but maybe he still had a chance to fix it. Or fix him.

His little brother, Yellowbeard.

His little brother, Sherlock.


	4. A User, An Addict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my favourite and was pretty much the reason why I decided to write this work at all.  
> I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were more than proud of Mycroft, and reasonably so. 

Mycroft excelled at everything he touched and was already poking his nose into politics at the age of 20. Studying at one of the best universities in the whole kingdom with great results, he'd soon gathered acquaintances and contacts in all high and important places. Mycroft knew how to use his intelligence and had a clear plan. He aimed high and didn't take no for an answer, a shiny career was being slowly set up in front of him. 

The younger Holmes' son was a reason for their parents to be proud as well as worried.

Sherlock more than matched his brother in brilliance but what he lacked in comparison was tact and understanding of norms. His genius showed through early, in a chaotic manner. The younger Holmes found his interest in Chemistry and enjoyed spending his free time conducting experiments. What he didn't care much for was where the experiments would take place or how would the experiments affect said place. The bomb squad was at the premises of Sherlock's school two times, the fire brigade six times. 

New experiments, new results, new research. Sherlock was a thinker, an observer. His high intelligence and intellect had match in nobody, not even Mycroft, and they started to almost scare people around him. 

His older brother watched him through the years with worry forming wrinkles on his young face. Sherlock had changed. From emotional to unfeeling, from playful to constantly bored.

" _The shoes._ The shoes! Mycroft!" yelled Sherlock down the hall.

"Bloody hell, have you broken in again?"

The young man jumped in front of his older brother, holding a stack of old papers in his hand.

"His shoes are missing, Mycroft. They're gone. Where would they go? He loved those shoes. Changed the laces four times in one year. He scrubbed them clean every time."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and walked past Sherlock to his bedroom, working the cufflink on his sleeve.

"This again. If I remember correctly, the police deemed the boy's death an accident."

"And that's where they are wrong. Those idiots already see the death as an accident. They decided to knowingly ignore the proof that it's _not_ an accident. You can call a few places. Tell them that they're bloody morons," Sherlock dictated as he shoved the papers into Mycroft's face again.

Annoyed, Mycroft took a step to a side and walked right past Sherlock.

"No, Sherlock. I don't have any say in the police matters. Sorry," said Mycroft as he looked at Sherlock in the mirror while tying his tie.

The smile he gave him was a bit too sarcastic and Sherlock rolled his eyes in response, reading through the papers again.

"What good is a brother in politics if he can't even call out the bobbies when they're not doing their job right?"

"I'm not in the politics to be any good to you, sweet brother," said Mycroft as he turned back to him, the sarcastic smile not leaving his face.

Sherlock made a scrunched up face and his eyes went to the back of his head again.

"Ah, good to our country, then? Long live the queen!" he yelled out loud as he took the papers under his arm.

Sherlock set his back straigth as a ruler and hugged an imaginative rifle to his side. Saluting his brother, he paraded his way out of the bedroom while Mycroft rubbed his temples. 

"Make sure they depict you from the left side on the twenty quid note, brother! You look awfully fat from all the other ones."

Mycroft looked up and wanted to grab the nearest throwable thing and send it right to Sherlock's face but when he stepped into the hallway, Sherlock was gone.

It wasn't the first time his little brother broke into his dorm rooms and Mycroft knew way too well that even if he padlocked and sealed shut every single door and window, Sherlock would still find his way in somehow. Tolerating it was the least violent solution to the situation.

* * *

Mycroft came to the family's house to visit for the holidays. The first thing he heard from his parents was the usual.

"Please talk to him, Mike. He listens to you." 

"Are we speaking of the same brother?" 

His mother gave him a stern look as she sent him upstairs, to Sherlock's room. Upon knocking on the door and getting no answer as usually, Mycroft swung it open and stepped inside. 

Sherlock's room had little to no evidence that a boy his age even lived there. Aside from the many posters he had decorated the walls with, the place was bare. Mycroft approached his table occupied by chemical equipment and countless vials and papers. Sherlock always kept everything clean but Mycroft recognized which experiment was last. None of it had been used for a while but the older Holmes's son knew better than to touch any of it. 

He approached the window and noticed the paint chipped off at the bottom frame. With further inspection he saw the scratches on the handles and he knew that his brother had left the premises of their home. Careful to not disturb his mother baking Christmas cookies or his father watching crappy telly, Mycroft slipped out of the house through the back door. 

He walked down the road until he approached a lake that Sherlock used quite often as his hiding spot. From the distance he saw the silhouette of his younger brother standing at the shore. Tall and thin as Sherlock was, wrapped in a dark jacket with his dark curls getting mercilessly ruffled by the wind. 

Calmly and at a slow pace, Mycroft joined his younger brother in watching the scenery. None of them seemed to admit to noticing the other one's presence for a few long moments.

"What a crap lake," muttered finally Mycroft.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he glanced at his brother, small grin tugging at the left corner of his lip.

"I don't know, the air is nice. Clean, fresh," said Sherlock and looked back at the water surface.

"Yeah, well," Mycroft reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, "we both know you're not a fan of clear air, anyway."

He offered them to his brother without breaking eye contact with the scenery and Sherlock kept his gaze ahead as he took a cigarette. Mycroft took one as well and pulled out a lighter, lighting his and then tossing the lighter over to Sherlock.

"You don't smoke," said Sherlock with a fag between his lips, bringing the tip to the flame.

"But you do as I've been told," answered Mycroft after taking a drag.

Both of them breathed out smoke together, standing side by side, watching the mirror surface of the lake. They smoked and waited. Waited and smoked. Finished their cigarettes and then lighted another one each.

"I like the high tar better."

"You were always prone to stupid decisions."

Sherlock laughed, taking a long drag and dropping his head back, watching the smoke as he breathed it out.

"Do me a favor and don't make this a habit," Mycroft tapped his finger on the cigarette and ash fell on the ground, "Mother would be devastated if you died of lung cancer. And she would blame me, not speaking of the fact I would be the only son she'd have left to harass. God help me."

Sherlock smiled, "Are they mad?"

"Worried."

Sherlock nodded his head and took a drag slowly, feeling the smoke scratch at his throat roughly. 

"At least this time they found only the cigarettes," said Mycroft dryly and dropped his fag, stomping it on the ground.

Caught off guard, Sherlock broke the wall between them and looked at his older brother just to see him walking back towards the house. He took a last drag and stomped the cigarette butt on the ground, catching up with him.

* * *

When Mycroft decided to visit his brother one day but his student dorms were empty, he asked around. Sherlock hasn't been seen at the campus for days and Mycroft knew that he didn't return home. 

Curious and worried, with no friends, that his brother never bothered to make, who could know about his whereabouts, it took two more days for Mycroft to track down Sherlock and find the building he was standing in right now. Two more days of fright for his little brother.

But the place he found didn't ease his thoughts at all. 

The unkept building reeked of moisture and was bloated with dust and God knows what more. There weren't many doors, just empty frames with occasional torn curtain draped over them. Bottles of liquor were lying around among the piles of used needles, makeshift tourniquets, melted spoons and pieces of glass.

Mycroft took his steps with caution as he made his way across the bare concrete floor, searching for a familiar face, searching for those messy curly hair, that sharp face of his brother. A million thoughts flowing through his head, he could focus only at hoping, praying that Sherlock would be more than an empty shell that remained of a once functional man. Walking through the empty rooms one at a time, Mycroft arrived to a room with nothing but a damp mattress.

On that mattress, curled up into a ball with a belt around his arm, lied his little brother. 

His baby brother Sherlock. 

The genius who solved the crimes the police couldn't. The bastard who kept getting himself into trouble and using Mycroft for his position and influance. The asshole who read through everyone like through a map. The baby brother Mycroft had sworn to protect. He had sworn to take care of Sherlock. And he failed.

Sherlock shook and writhed on the mattress, feverish, his curls sticking with sweat to his face. Mycroft's weight slowly sank onto the mattress next to him. He put away his umbrella and took Sherlock's face weakly into his hands.

"Redbeard. Redbeard," mumbled Sherlock over and over.

His eyes were glued shut with tears and his chapped lips were barely moving as he spoke. He didn't feel Mycroft's hands, didn't even know he was there. He took too much of whatever the hell he was taking. He was too high and couldn't find his way back down.

"Oh, Sherlock," whispered Mycroft with his voice breaking apart.

Tears sprang to his eyes but he didn't let them change his expression. Calm and collected, he held his brother close as he called an ambulance.

  


The moment Sherlock woke up he felt like shit and looked like shit. His skin was pale like death itself and he felt as if he ate a spoonful of ash. 

He looked down at his bruised and abused arms and saw that he was dressed in a hospital gown, strapped to the bed with beeping monitors at both of his sides. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed out deeply as he let his head hit the pillow behind him.

"Mycroft," he said, knowing about his brother's presence.

Mycroft approached the bed in three loud steps, looking down at him. He didn't say anything, knowing full well that the look on his face would ask all the questions needed. Just as would the look on their parents' faces who were waiting outside. Sherlock was well aware and thus, he kept his eyes closed.

"You overdosed," noted Mycroft strongly.

Sherlock smacked his lips and sighed, his left hand wanted to wipe his eye but he was reminded that he was, indeed, strapped to the bed, "Before you say what you want to say-"

"How long?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and was met with Mycroft's protective gaze upon him. 

He hated when he looked at him like that, knowing full well that it meant he did something his big brother considered truly stupid and disapproved of. Sherlock didn't really care or felt affected by what Mycroft approved or disapproved of, but the look he gave him burned right through him and he wanted to be spared the pain. Especially when he was in withdrawal.

"A few months," Sherlock looked around the room mindlessly, "I'm a user, not an addict."

"You're an addict, Sherlock." 

"Oh, spare me your goodness, big brother! I use only my needles, my equipment, always clean. I know what I'm doing."

"Are you now?" Mycroft stepped in closer, looking down at the pale face, Sherlock's cheekbones were more prominent than usually, his cheeks sunken in.

"Yes. I am."

"You were full of so many things the doctors weren't sure what you overdosed on."

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his lips tightly together, biting them. He felt annoyed, reminded of a mistake he made. 

"It helps me think. Boosts my brain. I use only the advantages." 

He kept defending the drug use while Mycroft stood there tall and strong like a column, staring his little brother down. He wouldn't be a witness to his brother destruction by his own hand. He never would. He couldn't allow that.

His mind flashed back to the moment he had seen Sherlock on the beach at Musgrave, giving up his pirate hat. The long conversations they held about the pet dog they've never had. The trauma settling in Sherlock and changing form. His intellect preceding those's around him and leaving him alone. The ultimate boredom his brighter fought with every day. 

Sherlock. 

His little brother Sherlock. 

He had a mind of his own and a brilliant one at that. No slap on his hand or even a threat on his own life would change his mind about substance abuse. If he believed it to be beneficial to him, he would not stop. And no matter how careful and in control he thought he was, he would make another mistake like the one that had gotten him into this hospital bed.

Mycroft almost lost Sherlock today. 

The doctors pumped his stomach empty and flushed through his whole system to cleanse him from the drugs and get him back.

Watching his baby brother out of his genius mind, poisoned by himself, destroying himself, made Mycroft make a decision. He would never lose Sherlock.

For their parents. For himself. For Sherlock himself. He needed to protect him.

"Make a list." 

"A list?"

Sherlock looked up at him with confusion evident in his eyes. Mycroft repeated sternly, calmly.

"Everytime you use, you make a list of everything you took."

_"Always come to me when you're in trouble. And I'll try my best to sort it out. I'm good at those things. You can trust me."_

"Promise me, Sherlock."

The younger Holmes looked stunned and after a while shifted his focus down, watching his bruised and abused forearms.

"Promise me." 

I can't help you if I don't know what you've taken. You almost died today and you were lucky. I can't rely on luck. I want to protect you. I know you won't stop. All I can do is help you the best I can when you make a mistake, brother. Let me help you.

Promise me.

"I promise," rasped Sherlock.


	5. A Lonely Naive Man

He found Sherlock at the end of the main hall, looking outside into the rainy night through a window. Hands in pockets, back straight and an expression on his face that told Mycroft he wasn't quite there. 

His mind was battling an issue he looked like he didn't understand. What was he thinking of? 

Surely not those sharp sounds of her heels hitting the hardwood floors as she was led away. 

The desperation in her voice as she begged him for mercy. 

The pulses of her heart rushing against the pads of his fingers. 

The softness of her lips against his cheek. 

With a blink, Sherlock dismissed all of that and turned to Mycroft when he realized he was being watched. 

"Ah, brother. Sorry to occupy your space. I'm waiting for my cab, he should be here in a few minutes," Sherlock closed the button on his jacket and pulled on his sleeve. 

"My driver can take you." 

"Oh, please. I've had enough of your people taking me places." 

Mycroft watched as Sherlock put on the usual act. The cold and rude genius detective who didn't care for anything or anyone. Could had fooled him if he didn't happen to be his older brother. 

What Mycroft saw tonight wasn't an act. 

What he saw tonight was Sherlock's heart. 

Kept in check but passionate and desperate for attention, caught off guard by The Woman. 

His little brother felt maybe for the first time challenged and was visibly lost. 

The Woman had pushed him to the edge of his abilities and no matter how ridiculous he thought it was, she had made feel special. She had made him fall for her and ultimately forced him to destroy her. And now she was on his mind, seeing straight through him with those blue rimmed eyes. 

"There's not many women like her," said the older brother. 

He approached the window next to Sherlock, seeing the wet and gloomy London outside. Sherlock didn't need to see his face to know what was Mycroft trying to do. He bit his lip and rubbed his chin with a hand. 

"No," answered Sherlock and walked off, grabbing his coat from a chair on his way to the door. 

"Will you be okay?" rang Mycroft's voice through the hallway. 

Sherlock stopped and turned to him, his scarf already on. He looked less sad and more annoyed. 

"Oh please, Mycroft. You think you see into me? You think of me as that weak? Will you give me the talk of birds and bees now? Tell me that it's okay to feel this way?" mocked him Sherlock. 

Mycroft smiled in a way he knew his little brother hated the most. 

"You've won. You've beaten her in her own game," he tucked his hands in his pockets, seeing Sherlock listening to him, "But it wasn't really a victory for you, was it?" 

His little brother just stood there, watching him and Mycroft knew that look on his face. 

Sherlock did what he had to to clean up the mess he created. He would never let anything as weak as sentiment affect his work, or trip over governments in this case. But for the first time, tonight, it didn't mean that he enjoyed having the upper hand. 

Sherlock's phone buzzed and he turned back to the door, his footsteps echoing through the hall. 

"Well, cab's here. Nice seeing you, _bro_ ," he waved a hand to him as he left.


	6. The Dead Man

Mycroft folded The Sun he was holding which beared the news about his brother's passing in big bold letters. He rested it down on his lap and grasped a breath, his hands touching by the tips of his fingers. The papers seemed to revel in the suicide, almost as if they celebrated it, enjoying the popularity of the lie; Sherlock Holmes a fraud, a man who had pretended to be a genius and when discovered ultimately decided to kill himself. They all loved the idea so much. 

The whole ordeal left Mycroft disgusted but not surprised. He closed the door behind him as he entered his office and poured himself a drink, sitting down heavily in his chair.

Seeing doctor Watson with such blank and empty glare as the one he had at the funeral reminded him why he started to wear the three piece suit. The Special Forces wore a kevlar vest over their uniform, Mycroft wore his vest with velvet black under his suit. It made him feel just a layer safer. One more barricade between his heart and the world around him, his job. One more protection against the pain he should feel. The pain of losing his brother. Losing Sherlock. 

Because he was lost. Dismantling a web of criminal threads left behind by Moriarty, but not as Sherlock Holmes, no, he was not the detective in the funny hat anymore.

He was a blurry face in a crowd. He was a dirty beggar with matted hair, a mercenary with skin burnt from the sun, a translator with accent that was never his own, a local offering a helping hand, a soldier, an informer. He was a nobody. 

Sherlock Holmes had died at the pavement in front of St. Bart's hospital. 

And Mycroft wondered if it was even possible to resurrect him once the nobody came back from the war.

And Mycroft wondered why was this so normal to him. Why the lies and secrecies came to him so naturally.

And Mycroft wondered just when exactly had he traded his humanity for his brother's safety. For the safety of his own heart that beat together with Sherlock's and that would break apart if Sherlock's was ever to stop. 

His little brother wasn't dead and he was one of the very few who knew.

And he felt nothing. He felt no sorrow, no sadness. He felt only pity for himself for not being able to feel what he should feel. 

When had it come to this, Sherlock? When had this happened? Me sending you on a path full of danger. 

Perhaps we're not kids anymore.

Perhaps we're not siblings anymore.

Perhaps we're all machines.

We're both the deadmen.


	7. A Murderer

Everything slowed down when the shot had rung out. 

Magnussen's head was thrown back and it hit the ground first, followed closely behind by his lifeless body. The gun was out of Sherlock's hand before that even happened. Arms splaid out and above his head, Sherlock stood still while countless of red dots centered on his face. 

Oh you bastard, thought to himself Mycroft. 

You absolute utter bastard. 

You idiot. 

You. 

Sherlock. 

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done?" muttered Mycroft. 

The younger Holmes' back wasn't straight as a ruler, he was hunched over. His face wasn't victorious and full of pride, he was scared. His eyes weren't chasing his brilliant mind in an imaginitive palace, he was staring into nothing, breath hitched. All his brother could see was that little boy with curly hair and a pirate hat, beads of salt running down his cheeks. 

How badly he wanted to scoop him up and hug him tight while taking him far away from here. But he couldn't. Sherlock had killed a man. It didn't matter that the man was a lizard walking on two, frankly, it never mattered. Sometimes the worst possible outcome was caused by the most logical thing. 

He drugged their parents, Mycroft himself, pregnant Mary, took top secret information and offered it to Magnussen. Sherlock was an idiot, as always. The little stupid brother. The little stupid brother who thought himself a dragon slayer, a ridiculous hero. What was he thinking? The idiot. 

Why, brother? 

Why? 

For John? 

For John and Mary and their baby. 

Oh Sherlock. 

Oh my dear little brother. 

Sociopath, a genius, whatever the bloody hell you call yourself. 

You're just a man. 

A man who protects people he loves. 

You're doing a better job than me. 

"My brother is a murderer." said Mycroft in a stern voice to a room full of people. 

The conversation they had while smoking a fag in their parents' house backyard was still fresh in his mind when he rode in the car with him to the airport. They were both silent like they always were. Sherlock was calmly looking out the window and the man next to him was surprised at how much it was bothering him. 

He watched Sherlock say goodbye to John and Mary and thought about just how much he had failed him. He failed him in everything he promised to do. Protecting him. Teaching him. Being with him. 

While Sherlock protected John and Mary, Mycroft couldn't protect his little brother. 

He felt so much anger towards Sherlock for what he had done. Towards himself for not stopping it. And respect for Sherlock, for offering everything he had, in return for peace for his friends. His family. He wondered if he would be able to do the same. Why hadn't he? Why hadn't he lied, plotted, protected Sherlock and let him go free? 

Mycroft was jealous of John and Mary Watson, of the love they shared with Sherlock. 

Mycroft was jealous of Sherlock.


	8. Sherlock

"Five minutes."

Mycroft's eyebrow twitched up. The wrinkles in Sherlock's face deepened and somehow at that moment he looked like he was the older brother. Worried and hurt and facing a choice he had to make.

"It took her just five minutes to do this to us."

Five minutes allowed by Mycroft. He could never know if it was worth it, not before the faithful Christmas present and not now. How many tragedies and potential country crumbling situations had they evaded thanks to Eurus? How many lives had they saved because of her advice? 

He was bad at his job when he would gladly trade it all just to not see Sherlock this troubled. Facing a choice between an estranged brother and a loyal friend. 

It almost resembled pain, knowing that Sherlock would always choose John. Mycroft knew. He understood. He didn't blame John or Sherlock.

He just wished he could make it easier.

"Not if I can help it," said Sherlock and pressed the barrel into the soft flesh under his chin.

Both John and Mycroft took a wary step towards Sherlock to stop him. It took them only a few seconds to realize what he was doing, and both of them knew he was crazy enough to mean it. 

Sherlock wasn't gonna let Eurus take away everything. Not John. And not Mycroft.

What a childish thought, flashed through Mycroft's mind. All he could think about was how touching it was to see Sherlock care for him. How proud and happy he felt to see Sherlock care. 

Maybe that little emotional pirate wasn't lost at all. 

Maybe that genius detective wasn't so cold after all. 

And maybe Eurus was wrong to think she could use Sherlock to her liking.

* * *

The office belonging to Mycroft Holmes at the Diogenés club was deserted.

The old expensively furnitured house he lived in was deserted. 

Mycroft sat on the sofa at Sherlock's flat, not taking John's chair out of respect even when he wasn't here. He stared into nothing, wearing his button up shirt with just his vest, open, black slacks and black socks. Sherlock had on sweatpants and a grey shirt with his red robe over it, barefoot, sitting next to Mycroft. Both of them had their feet up on the coffee table and both of them chuckled realizing how much would mummy hate to see them do that.

Scotch worth more than the rent for 221B swirled around in Mycroft's glass and he numbly took a swing. They were silent for a few hours now, staring at the fireplace. Sherlock held the nicotine patches on his arm, as if he could feel the substance entering his veins. 

There were differences between the two brothers.

Sherlock smoked, Mycroft drank.

Sherlock dressed to look cool, Mycroft dressed to represent. 

The younger brother stood tall and thin, the older brother battled with a belly his whole life.

And yet, there were things that would give the two away everytime.

Both of them thought they are the smarter brother.

Both of them would sell the other one to not have to spend time with their parents.

Both of them carried the weight of a genius brain.

Both of them thought being alone is for the best. 

Both of them were wrong.

Both of them loved.

Both of them felt and hurt.

Both of them were not alone.

"Likewise," rang Sherlock's deep voice.

Mycroft's stream of thought was abruptly stopped and he glanced at his brother, "I haven't said anything."

Sherlock leaned back into his sofa and relaxed, closing his eyes while rubbing the little patches on his forearm.

"Yes you did."

Baffled, Mycroft sank into the cushions next to Sherlock. Little sly smile appeared on his brother's face as he opened an eye to see Mycroft take another sip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank everyone who took their time to read my little work. This was my first multi chapter story. I didn't really post regularly and the length of the chapters often varied drastically, but I hope you can still find them interesting to read. Mycroft is a really troublesome character to write about and I always need the right mood to express him in a way I'm satisfied with. Hopefully I did him justice.
> 
> Thank you again!
> 
>  
> 
> _This is the end of this story._  
>  Although I have no doubts that Sherlock and Mycroft have shared and will share many more moments like these in their lives.


End file.
